


Sex and Paranoia

by a_lanart



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM reference, F/M, Voyeurism, corset kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-07
Updated: 2012-02-07
Packaged: 2017-10-30 18:26:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/334750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_lanart/pseuds/a_lanart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock makes a request; John is not particularly happy about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sex and Paranoia

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer** : Sherlock Holmes belongs to ACD, though this incarnation is the responsibility of a certain Mr Moffat and Mr Gattis (thanks guys!) and the BBC.  
> No copyright infringement intended, no profit made; this is just for fun!  
> The OFC is mine.  
> Title from the song by A Wedding Anniversary
> 
> Idea from [this](http://sherlockbbc.livejournal.com/3914723.html?thread=34151139#t34151139) prompt at [ Make me a Monday](http://sherlockbbc.livejournal.com/3914723.html) week 72, the relevant bit for my muses being _includes John's outrage at being a test subject once again, a self-possessed OFC who can focus on John without being distracted by the weirdo measuring her responses_. Not an exact fill, but the OFC is there. Cally was first introduced in [Undisclosed Desires](http://archiveofourown.org/works/329537) and this fic takes place at the same time as UD, just before the last section.

~*~

Living in the same flat as Sherlock Holmes was akin to living in a seismically active area and about as unpredictable but John counted himself lucky that the times when it was more like being in a war zone weren't that frequent. Sherlock had learned the hard way that making things literally – instead of metaphorically – explode when John was in the flat, especially when he was half asleep and without warning him in advance, was not a good idea; the bruises had taken a while to heal.

John had learned to deal with most of Sherlock's odd requests with equanimity as he stood a much better chance of explaining to Sherlock just *why* he wouldn't do something if he remained calm and appealed to logic; not that Sherlock always understood what John thought of as logic, particularly if interpersonal relationships were involved. Occasionally though, Sherlock did an admirable job of disrupting John's hard-won and almost stoic calm. He'd thought it was bad enough when Sherlock barged in on him having some 'personal' time, despite him having locked the door – he'd not heard the tell-tale sounds of the lock being picked as his mind had been elsewhere as he focused on the task in hand – but Sherlock's latest request really took the damned biscuit.

"You want me to _what_?!" It was a pub night, and John had just picked his coat up ready to head out when Sherlock had dropped his bombshell. If John hadn't been too gobsmacked to move he would have stomped across the room to shake some sense into Sherlock where he sprawled indolently on the sofa.

"You heard me correctly, I'm sure. I need to observe your physiological response to erotic stimuli when carried out by another person; ergo, I require you to bring someone here, where I can undertake the observation in a more controlled environment, and engage in sexual intercourse."

The sound of his coat hitting the floor after it had slid out of his suddenly wooden fingers roused John somewhat from his complete and utter stupefaction.

"Sherlock! You can't just…"

"A woman would be better, I think, but if you were so inclined a man would be acceptable for the…."

"Sherlock!!!" John felt like he was almost screaming but it appeared to at least gain a proportion of Sherlock's attention. He took a couple of deep breaths in an effort to bring himself under some semblance of control before he said anything else. "That is not something you should be asking of a… a friend, believe me."

"I don't see why not, I couldn't ask anyone else could I?"

John wanted to bash his head against the door frame in an effort to try and knock some sense into _himself_ ; Sherlock's logic sometimes left him feeling like he was flailing in quicksand.

"Well, no. I suppose it is better that you asked me rather than anyone else," he said. The smile that sneaked across Sherlock's face at that looked far too dangerous for John's liking so he raised a hand to halt its progression. "But that doesn't mean I'm going to indulge you. Some things just aren't done, Sherlock and you spying on my sex life is one of them."

"It wouldn't be spying if you and the other party were aware of my presence from the outset, it would be…"

"Sherlock! Enough!" John bent to pick up his coat from the floor and struggled into it; his hands still felt a bit wooden. "I'm going out for a drink with the guys and I expect you to have put this.. this _ludicrous_ idea out of your mind by the time I get back. Is that clear?"

"Yes, John." 

He gave Sherlock a narrow eyed glare – he didn't trust the bland meekness of that tone of voice – and opened the door. It was an effort not to slam it behind him but he reminded himself that it wasn't Mrs Hudson's doors fault that Sherlock was such a git.

*

John was not in a mood to be sociable when he arrived at the pub and he was sure that was probably obvious from his face as he wasn't met with the usual cheery greeting.

"Sherlock?" Greg asked with a sigh.

"Sherlock," John agreed and concentrated fiercely on the pint that Greg shoved under his nose. He was left alone for the entirety of his first pint and he was halfway through his second before he surfaced enough to take note of his table mates. He caught Greg's eyes and gave him a nod that was answered with a quick smile but no-one attempted to leave the gaggle of people at the other end of the table and take one of the empty seats next to him and that was fine with John. A few minutes and a couple more mouthfuls of beer later he started to take notice of who had come out for the night and was still in the process when someone sat next to him. The pink drink would have been indicator enough of identity, even without the be-ringed hand with metallic purple nails that was wrapped round it. She was obviously on a day off; she never wore jewellery or nail varnish if she'd been on duty. Her hair was like a dark blue cloud around her face.

"Cally."

"John."

They drank in silence for a while and he felt himself begin to unwind; it was a relief. He stretched a little and sighed; dealing with Sherlock would give him a stroke one of these days.

"So, what's he done now?" Cally asked with studied casualness, it was the tone of voice she used to mean "if you want to tell me, I'll listen, but don't feel obliged if you don't think you can share" and John appreciated her tact. He wasn't sure if he _wanted_ to tell anyone but if he did, Cally would probably be his first choice; Greg was too close to Sherlock for John to feel completely comfortable about offloading some of his issues on him, even if he shared John's exasperation with Sherlock more often than not.

"Oh just him being his usual self," he replied. It wasn't that far from the truth. 

Cally let him get away with the answer for another swallow of beer.

"I don't think so. Oh he may have been being his usual tactful self but whatever it was has rattled you badly. He's not done _that_ for a while, John." He glanced at her for a moment to find that behind the make up she just looked concerned and John felt a little bit more of his bad mood fall away under her regard.

"I'm not sure where I would start," he said. 

She smiled at him. "The beginning is usually a good place."

"I… Ok. Um… Yeah." John glanced at the rest of the table to find them totally uninterested in what he and Cally were sharing as they listened to – and participated in – Greg arguing with, of all people, Sally Donovan about Star Trek. He'd never realised Greg was a closet Trekkie but he couldn't say it exactly surprised him. 

"So?"

"I'm not sure you really want to know, it's not the sort of thing you discuss with friends in a pub."

"John, I'm a nurse; we talk about diarrhoea over curry. Plus, I'm a nosy cow and I'm absolutely _dying_ of curiosity."

John couldn't help but smile, maybe Cally would help him gain a different perspective. He decided there was no other way to go about this than to go for broke. He sighed.

"Sherlock had a proposition to make before I left."

"Good on him, I didn't think he was interested..."

"Not _that_ sort of proposition. Well, not quite that sort of proposition; he still isn't interested in.. ah.. indulging in certain things…"

"You mean sex."

"Cally!"

"Sorry. Go on."

"You're right though, but while he isn't interested on his own behalf it seems he is from a purely scientific point of view. He apparently wants to observe my 'physiological response to erotic stimuli when carried out by another person' – his words, not mine." 

"By another person, hmm? Oh don't tell me he walked in on you tossing off." 

John felt his ears go red, but he didn't reply.

"He did, didn't he? And now he wants to _watch_ you with someone else? Bloody Sherlock's a voyeur; fancy that." She sounded far too happy for John's liking.

"You aren't making this any easier," he said.

"Sorry." This time Cally did sound genuinely apologetic and he dared another glance at her; her expression was thoughtful rather than the mocking one he'd partly expected. She noticed him looking and gave him a smile. "So what did you say?"

"I told him to forget it."

"Do you honestly think he will?"

"No, and that's the problem."

"You are going to have one huge fucking elephant in the room."

"Exactly."

"Well, I can think of one solution."

"You can?" John hoped he didn't sound too desperate.

"Yeah. Me." John felt like he'd been hit in the head with a chair but Cally just grinned at him. "I like you, I like sex with you and it would be good to do it in a bed for a change, so why not?"

"Cally, you can't honestly…"

"John, shut up a minute." 

John closed his mouth and glared at her.

"Thank you," she said. "Now think; where did you first meet me?"

"At a crime scene."

"I said think, John. What was special about that crime scene?"

"You were doing first aid in a corset. No, don't "John, shut up" me again, that was the first thing I noticed; it was kind of hot. So you were wearing the corset because it was a.. fetish club, right?"

"Close. Did you look upstairs at all?"

"I didn't get the chance after.. " After he'd fucked her against the wall in the disabled loo without even knowing her name. He gave her a shamefaced grin. She grinned back.

"You might have found it interesting. Upstairs was the 'play' area; it was a BDSM club night. You do know what I mean by BDSM, don't you?"

John mumbled his way through the meaning of the acronym but as she nodded in agreement he counted it as a win. 

"I still don't see what this has got to do with what Sherlock said – or your solution," he said.

"Trust me, it's very relevant. I think I'm safe in assuming it's not the thought of sex with me that's the problem."

"God, no. Definitely no problem there." John had to admit he rather liked the idea of sex in a proper bed with Cally and he was certain the stupid smile on his face would confirm what he'd said.

"You don't like the idea of being watched, then."

"Of course I don't… not in such a… a.. clinical way at least."

"Heat of the moment?"

"Maybe. I don't know – it's never been an issue for God's sake." He knew he sounded irritated, but her line of questioning was not exactly making him comfortable.

"In a BDSM scene you learn to focus on who is sharing that scene with you, no matter how many other people are watching; it's essential. This wouldn't be exactly the same but if you gave me half a chance, I bet I could get you to forget Sherlock was there. I'm very focused when I put my mind to it."

"I.. I'm sure you are." John licked his suddenly dry lips and reached for his drink.

"Like the idea, do you?" she asked.

"A bit more than I did."

"Enough to consider it?"

"Maybe." His mind leapt from A to C without stopping at B. "You can't mean tonight!"

"No, of course I don't mean tonight. Maybe next week – gives you time to get used to the idea but not long enough to wriggle out of it. Plus, I need to talk to Sherlock. If we're going to do this, we're going to do it _my_ way and some boundaries will have to be set. He has to realise that if he steps over those boundaries I will kick his arse so hard he won't be able to sit down for a week."

"You're really serious about this," he said. It was less of surprise than he thought it would be.

"Never been more serious in my life. Having fun can be a serious business but it doesn't stop me from wanting to have fun whenever I can. Life's too short."

John couldn't help but stare at the mischievous grin on her face for a moment; then something clicked. God, he was stupid sometimes.

"You're… you _want_ Sherlock to watch. You like the idea!" He hoped he didn't sound as accusatory to her as he did in his own ears. She defused that worry when the grin stretched wider across her face.

"Guilty as charged. I like the idea of proving to him that for certain messy, human things he really can't be the centre of attention, even if he's right there in the room with us." She paused, glanced aside at him. "And you are _definitely_ interested…" John grabbed for his pint again. He wasn't going to give her an answer, he didn't think he had to when he'd been unconsciously shifting in his chair to relieve the pressure of his jeans on a certain part of his anatomy. She chuckled softly, before scrambling out of her chair and heading towards the bar for refills. 

As if her departure had been a signal, Greg appeared at his other side – the conversation about Star Trek obviously over – and settled himself into the chair.

"Better?" Greg asked.

John nodded, giving him a quick smile.

"Good. Need me to set up another drugs bust sometime soon?"

"Not this time. I think Cally is all set to give him a piece of her mind," John said.

"I'm staying well away, then. Wouldn't want to get on her bad side by mistake."

There was a clink as Cally returned with the drinks, placed them on the table and sat back down in her own chair.

"And that, Greg, is the most sensible thing I've heard you say all night," she said with a smile. 

John couldn't remember what they talked about after that, just let the comfortable flow of conversation wash over and around him until it was time to leave. He found himself strangely nervous as he left the pub with Cally, wondering just what she would say to Sherlock and what he would do in response. She linked her arm through his as they walked down the road.

"Don't worry about it," she said. "Just go with the flow and it'll be fine. Stop me if I say something you really don't agree with, though. OK?"

"OK," he agreed.

John trudged up the stairs up to 221b trying not to worry about what would greet him on the other side of the door. It seemed fairly quiet which was generally a good sign but he didn't like to make assumptions, not where Sherlock was concerned.

Sherlock was in the kitchen, eyes glued to the microscope on the table.

"Ah John, if you could just…"

John would have no idea what Sherlock was going to ask – probably to make tea, knowing him – as at that moment he raised his head and caught sight of Cally. If John hadn't been so bothered by the whole thing he would have enjoyed the experience of Sherlock being rendered speechless. 

"Sherlock." 

"Cally." 

John felt like a fish out of water as he watched the two of them size each other up. Cally broke first, and smiled.

"Mind if I make a cuppa?" She asked.

"Help yourself." 

John hung up his coat and watched as she made tea for the 3 of them, fixing each mug just right which puzzled him until he remembered that she'd got them tea when they'd been in the AED; just a good memory, then. Mug in hand, John retreated to his chair by the fire and Cally took a seat on the sofa. John was surprised when Sherlock followed them out and perched on his own chair. 

The silence was uncomfortable.

"Don't mind the elephant," Cally said. "I'll be sending it on its way soon enough."

John thought the perplexed expression on Sherlock's face was almost worth his own discomfort. Almost.

"She's here about your proposed… experiment," John said carefully. 

Sherlock frowned. "I thought I was supposed to put the 'ludicrous idea' out of my mind?"

"Left up to John, you would have had to. I had a different idea but it means you'll have to agree to some terms and conditions."

John tried to make himself disappear into his chair in anticipation of them discussing him as if he wasn't there. He was used to it from Sherlock of course but it didn't mean he was looking forward to the experience.

"Go on," Sherlock said.

"One: if we agree to do this, it has to be in your room, Sherlock. I have no qualms about invading your privacy in this situation but to force it on John would be wrong."

John sighed with relief, that was something he'd worried about as his room up the stairs was just about his only refuge from Sherlock, even if he did pick the lock.

"Two: we are in control of this, not you. If either of us decide we aren't happy then it doesn't happen. If we want to stop at any point, we stop."

John risked a glance at Sherlock; he was doing nothing more sinister than sipping at his tea, though he gave a nod to Cally to indicate that she should continue, which John thought was hopeful.

"Three: you keep your mouth shut. You wanted to observe; that's fine, observe. Offering your opinion on what you observe is not required and will run the risk of ending the 'experiment' earlier than you might wish. You may answer if either of us speaks to you first." 

Sherlock looked slightly pained at the last condition, but he still nodded his agreement. John hid his smile in his tea.

"Four: you pay for my taxi fare home afterwards; I don't think it would be a good idea for me to stay. Oh and just let me add that if you do try to take control of this, Sherlock, you will regret it; that much I can promise you. I know exactly how to use that riding crop I saw on your desk."

With that, she finished, and settled back into the cushions of the sofa. John noticed that the silence that met the end of Cally's terms and conditions had a different quality than the earlier one; it was… expectant. She glanced at him and he nodded carefully, he couldn't think of anything else to add.

"That's it?" Asked Sherlock. "I merely let you and John do whatever you want – in _my_ room – and keep quiet about it?" 

"That's it, unless John thinks of anything else in the meantime in which case we'd have to have an amendment."

"Done. I'll leave you and John to work out the details; I have work to do."

John watched Sherlock disappear back into the kitchen before abandoning his empty mug on the floor by his chair and taking a seat next to Cally on the sofa.

"So we're really going to do this, then? For Sherlock?"

"Not for Sherlock; for us. Oh we are going to have so much fun." Cally was almost bubbling with enthusiasm and her smile was infectious. John hated to put a damper on things but he did have one point to make.

"You do realise that once you've gone there is _no_ way that Sherlock will be able to stay quiet," he said.

"Oh, I hadn't thought of that. I could gag him for you, if you wanted." 

John laughed, until he realised she wasn't joking.

"No, it's all right. I'll deal with Sherlock in my own way if he's being obnoxious; I've had plenty of practice after all."

"I can imagine. So, shall we say next week after pub night?"

"After?"

"A little bit of Dutch courage won't do any harm. As long as it is only a little bit."

"I'll make sure it is only a bit, then."

 

It wasn't until John had seen her out of the front door that he realised he was knackered. He stuck his head into the kitchen to tell Sherlock he was off to bed, but he couldn't tell if Sherlock had heard him or not – his eyes had remained pressed to the microscope. John didn't really care, as long as he wasn't woken at 4 in the morning.

*

The week passed fairly quickly; an interesting case from Greg Lestrade kept Sherlock mostly out of trouble and the surgery was busy, but not chaotic, on the days John was working. Pub night crept up on John without him noticing but by the time it had, he realised that he wasn't worrying any more; it would either work out, or it wouldn't. He was surprised to find himself whistling as he headed out for the pub after threatening Sherlock with dire consequences if he messed up the flat while John was gone.

Cally was by the bar, talking to Greg, when John walked into the pub. Her hair was still royal blue.

"Do you realise this is the first time I've seen you with the same hair colour twice on the run," he said as he leaned on the bar next to her. Greg laughed, before he grabbed his pint and headed off to the table in the corner.

"That's exactly what Greg said; I'm obviously slipping."

"Feel free to keep slipping; it's a good colour on you." It was an odd thing to say, but John meant it. Her eyes crinkled at the corners as she smiled, the reflection off her hair made them seem more blue than grey for a change.

"I bet you never thought you'd be saying _that_ to someone with blue hair."

"Maybe not, but it doesn't make it less true," he said with conviction.

"I'll remember that." Her drink arrived then – something luridly green – and she followed Greg towards their usual table. John hesitated for a moment before ordering his own drink but settled on his usual pint rather than something stronger. If he needed a bit more Dutch Courage later on there was some fairly decent whisky back at Baker Street, courtesy of Mycroft, which Sherlock was not allowed to touch except for the purpose of drinking.

The friendly but not-so-subtle innuendo that followed John out of the pub door as he left with Cally was no worse than he expected and for some reason had given Cally a fit of the giggles. He put his hand out to steady her as she hung onto the door frame and realised that beneath her hoodie, her waist was a little more unyielding than he'd expected. His hand tightened; she stopped laughing.

"You're wearing the corset," he said. He'd thought it a little strange that she kept the hoodie on, even inside the pub, but had brushed it aside as irrelevant. It hadn't been irrelevant, it had been camouflage.

"Not exactly _the_ corset, but yes I am wearing a corset; I have quite a few of them."

"Oh." John could have kicked himself for how brainless he sounded, but damn he found it hot, found _her_ hot and the mental image of her straddling him while wearing said corset was enough to make his brain give up all pretence of rational thought for a moment.

She was grinning at him again and he realised he was staring at his hand where it was pressed against her waist. She'd asked him something and he became aware of the fact that he had absolutely no idea what on earth she'd said.

"What?" he asked.

"Taxi?"

He swallowed, carefully removed his hand and nodded his agreement. "I think that would be for the best, don't you?" Her laughter was his only answer.

She was still grinning when they reached Baker Street, John suspected she probably found his efforts at trying to maintain some distance between them hilarious and he was glad she'd feigned a studied interest in the toes of her Doc Martens in the taxi, even though it hadn't stopped his brain providing him with not-so-helpful suggestions of what could be done in the back of a black cab, no matter that most of them would result in them being thrown out of the taxi at best and potentially arrested at worst. He was glad when they got to the door of 221b, even with the prospect of Sherlock watching his every move.

Ever the gentleman, and also to give himself a couple of seconds to take a deep breath or two without it being so obvious, John held open the door for Cally and ushered her inside before following in her wake.

Sherlock was draped carelessly over his chair rather than sprawled on the sofa; John thought it was probably because the chair offered a better view of the door without it being immediately apparent that Sherlock _was_ watching the door.

Cally glanced from John to Sherlock with a brief smile.

"All right if I…?" She waved a hand in the direction of the kitchen and Sherlock's room. Sherlock gave her a tight nod, which John thought didn't bode well until he realised that Sherlock was positively scowling at _him_ not Cally.

"You weren't supposed to start without me," he grumbled. Before John could say anything there was a peal of laughter from the kitchen. Cally stepped back into the living area. 

"I didn't touch him, Sherlock. Cross my heart." She proceeded to do so.

"Then why?..." Sherlock _looked_ at him; cataloguing, deducing. It wouldn't take a genius to note his elevated heart and respiratory rate or the flush he could _feel_ at the base of his neck. Cally leaned nonchalantly against the wall; John did not trust the expression on her face one bit.

"It would appear that Dr Watson has a _thing_ for corsetry," she said. John couldn't exactly deny it, not when it was the truth, no matter that he hadn't previously been aware of it. Sherlock swung his legs over the arm of the chair and sat up, feet on the floor, fingers steepled against his chin.

"Fascinating." 

John took one look at Cally and they both dissolved into fits of laughter. She dived for the refuge of Sherlock's room while John tried to bring himself under control as he hung onto the door frame to avoid falling over.

"I fail to see why…"

"Cultural reference," John wheezed. Eventually, he stifled his giggles enough to stand unaided, slid out of his coat and toed off his boots. There was no sign of Cally reappearing so he peeled off his jumper too and chucked it in the general direction of the sofa. "Sod this," he said, "I'm having a drink." John made good his threat and headed for Mycroft's whisky, though he did pour one for Sherlock also. He was idly looking through a gap in the curtains at the street below when he heard Sherlock shift in his chair.

"John, I think it would be of benefit if you put your glass down before you turn round." Sherlock's tone brooked no argument so John complied and carefully placed the heavy glass on the bookshelf, then he slowly turned to face the rest of the room.

He was glad of Sherlock's advice, he had to admit.

The hoodie and boots had been shed so John could now see the evidence for himself that no, this wasn't _the_ corset that Cally was wearing, but it was still _a_ corset and had pretty much the same effect on him. He ignored Sherlock's assessing gaze as he stepped towards her.

"Like it?" She asked and gave him a little smile and a shimmy that made the colours of the corset ripple between black and a blue that almost matched her hair. Part of his brain noticed that it was cut below her bustline, so once he got the cropped lacy thing masquerading as a top – and her bra – off her, he would…

"Oh Jesus holy fuck," he said as his body went from fairly interested to demanding immediate action in what felt like about 3 seconds flat; Sherlock's presence was dismissed as no longer important. 

"I'll take that as a yes," she whispered and then they were reaching for each other; his mouth hot and heavy on hers, his hands wrapped tightly around her steel-bound waist as she fumbled with the buttons of his shirt.

How they managed to negotiate the kitchen without overturning anything, John had no idea; maybe Sherlock made himself useful and rescued everything that threatened to topple as he and Cally lurched between the kitchen table and the wall in their unsteady progress to Sherlock's bedroom, shedding clothes along the way even while they tried to maintain lip contact. Once they half-fell, half-ran through the bedroom door it became a battle between them to see which on of them could become horizontal first, one which John was pleased to win as he threw himself backwards onto the bed, then pulled Cally down on top of him. He found himself willingly held captive by stocking clad legs tight against his thighs, deceptively powerful hands pressing him into the mattress and a mouth that ravished and teased and devoured, demanding his surrender, which he was more than happy to tender. His hands drifted over soft, warm skin, silk and steel until they tangled in the laces that tied the corset closed at her back and he _yanked_ , forcibly pulling her away from him for a moment. One hand flailed around uselessly as he hung onto the corset laces with the other, searching for, but not knowing where to find the object of his quest. His overloaded brain didn't find it odd that gentle fingers pressed a wrapped condom into his hand when he knew hers were embedded in the skin of his chest, just concentrated on getting it _out_ of the packet and _onto_ himself in as short a time as possible, despite his lack of coordination. Her legs tightened around him as she rose up, then sank back down to envelop him in a delicious slide of tight, gripping heat.

There was a moment of tranquillity, a pause on the brink, an instant when the realisation that he was right where he wanted to be hit him like a blow to the chest and he could finally focus on her lust blown eyes, flushed face and the strands of blue hair stuck to her damp forehead; fucking fantastic. Then she began to move and he was chasing the edge of oblivion, racing her there with frantic thrusts and hands gone clumsy with need. Her hair was a blue cloud around them both as she sucked the air from his lungs and they were biting, fighting for breath, clutching at each other with desperate fingers. 

She fell first, beautiful as she broke apart, and all John could do was bury his teeth in her shoulder and hang on as he followed. 

It wasn't until it sunk in that yes, he was still breathing and yes, his heart was still _inside_ his chest, that he realised just how unconducive a corset was toward post-coital snuggling. He plucked ineffectually at the laces for a minute or so before he admitted defeat and huffed a breathy laugh into her hair when she managed no better. It was only then that he remembered there was another presence in the room.

"Hnnngh," he said, or at least that was what it sounded like to him. The was a breathless sort of grunt from Cally, then she turned her head which meant that any sound could escape into the room instead of being muffled by his skin.

"Sherlock, get this bloody corset off me. Now."

John thought that was a fantastic idea. Strange how Cally could still manage to think when it was entirely beyond his current capabilities; he couldn't even manage to talk.

"I don't know…"

"Then deduce it, for fucks sake! It's not exactly rocket science."

She shifted and John slipped out, well and truly spent, though he retained enough presence of mind to dispose of the condom. Holding her steady while Sherlock carefully unknotted and loosened the corset laces should have felt weird but John didn't care to examine why it didn't, which was probably strange in itself.

He wasn't watching and he felt as much as heard Sherlock's exhaled "ah" of satisfaction, a sound he only made when a puzzle resolved itself, fingers stilled on laces and traced out… something… on the skin at the base of her back.

What?" John mumbled, more or less coherently, which he regarded as an achievement.

"My tattoo." Cally replied.

"Tattoo?"

"And my name. You can tell him, Sherlock."

"Calliope, Homer's Muse; a name I hadn't considered."

"Bully for you. Now shove off for 10 minutes and let us have some privacy; it's cuddle time, which you will find incessantly boring."

Sherlock even closed the door after himself, which amazed John in the part of his brain still capable of being amazed. Cally scrambled off him, unclipped the stockings and the catches down the front of the corset, then discarded it on the floor where it landed with a dull thump. John held out an arm; she settled into his embrace and tried to burrow into his side. He kissed her hair and decided he really didn't want to move, not for a while at least. Eventually he had to move as he was beginning to feel chilled – except for where Cally was plastered against his side – even if it was only to pull the bedclothes over them. 

*

John was beginning to wonder what Sherlock had done with himself as he was sure they'd been left alone for a hell of a lot longer than 10 minutes, when the bedroom door creaked open to reveal his flatmate surprisingly bearing tea. Cally didn't turn a hair. 

"Ooh, thanks," she said as she wriggled herself into a more upright position that still left both her and John mostly covered up. John thought it was all rather surreal; if someone had suggested that he'd be comfortably drinking tea with Sherlock while he was naked in Sherlock's bed with a gorgeous woman after a _really_ good shag he would have laughed in their face and assumed they'd been indulging in hallucinogens. He concentrated on his tea and the warmth of Cally's bare skin pressing against his own and when the tea was finished she set their mugs aside and wormed her way back into his arms in such a way he had no option but to hold her, not that he dreamed of complaining.

"So Sherlock, drawn any conclusions from your experiment, yet?" Cally teased, John thought she was being a lot braver than he would be. The slow and easy smile that spread across Sherlock's face was almost a shock.

"It would seem that your initial supposition was entirely correct, Cally; John does indeed have a 'thing' for corsetry. A useful conclusion, and something to bear in mind for the future." John groaned and Cally giggled, producing some interesting vibrations where she leant against his chest that reminded him he was human, male, attracted to women and most importantly still naked in bed with one. 

"I'm glad you found it useful," he grumbled, which made Cally giggle again. She squirmed in his arms until she was leaning her head back on his shoulder as she smiled up at him.

"Well, we didn't exactly stick to the defined parameters of the experiment." 

"I suppose not," John agreed. 

"And anyway, now I don't feel like I want to rip your skin off and climb inside, I'd like to take my time and enjoy you properly." There wasn't really a lot John could say to that without sounding like a complete twat so he settled on a strangled sounding "oh" rather than saying nothing. Next thing, he wasn't able to say more even if he'd wanted to as she stretched up just a little bit more and kissed him, hard.

As a means of grabbing his attention, it certainly worked; Sherlock and the rest of the room faded into the background as he responded the only way he knew how, with complete and utter commitment. Her mouth slid from his and he would have protested the loss had she not begun peppering his jaw with kisses that contained enough teeth to ensure he remained fully focused on her.

"I want to touch you, kiss you, taste you," she murmured between kisses, "absolutely… everywhere." John shivered as her breath ghosted across his skin and he smiled into her hair, hoping that everywhere would take a hell of a long time.

It did.

Later, he was lying on his stomach as she mapped the whole of his back with her hands and her mouth, aided and abetted by the scratch of something that he _knew_ was another condom packet, even if he couldn't see it from where his face was buried in one of Sherlock's pillows to stifle his appreciative moans, and, barring one spot near the point of his right scapula where he was inexplicably ticklish, her efforts had turned him into a quivering wreck. Then she switched her focus to his spine and the smoulder of desire had turned into a conflagration as she proceeded to set him on fire and demonstrate that his entire spine from atlas and axis to coccyx was just one huge erogenous zone. She blazed a trail that continued to burn after her touch had passed and left him shaking and almost painfully hard where she had him pressed into the bed. He gasped in almost-relief when she removed her mouth from his spine and rested her chin on the curve of his arse, where each exhalation stirred the fine hairs in the small of his back. 

The brief respite didn't last, just long enough for her to catch her breath and for him to realise that he could feel how wet she was where she had his legs trapped beneath her. Before his sluggish brain could act on the information she raised her head, leaned into him and with her breasts pressed against his arse and upper thighs, sank her teeth into the base of his spine.

It was almost too much.

John didn't think, he _reacted_ and while his higher thought processes were definitely impaired, there was absolutely nothing wrong with his reaction time. In seconds he had Cally on her back, arms pinned above her head, trapped beneath him as he panted into her neck for a moment, trying to bring his screaming body under some sort of control. The fact that her chest was heaving against his didn't really help matters.

"Should have… done that earlier," she gasped. He couldn't help but give a breathless giggle, and was still smiling when he leaned in for a kiss.

"Time to get my own back," he whispered against her lips. It was all the warning he gave. 

His mouth was busy travelling a kissing, biting path along her clavicles when his brain helpfully reminded him that he wasn't going to be able to keep her hands restrained for much longer; his shoulder had begun to protest about the stretch of his arm above her head, scar tissue not being as flexible as native skin. Awareness of the faint tremor in his hand had started to pierce through the haze of lust that surrounded him and he growled in frustration against her skin, he knew it wouldn't take her long to break away from him. In the next instant, his hands weren't the only ones keeping hers captive. He flashed a grateful smile at Sherlock while barely raising his head and without really looking at him – John knew if he let Sherlock's presence impinge on his conscious mind it would be disruptive to say the least – and took full advantage of the fact that he had both hands free while Cally was still confined. 

"Sherlock, that's cheating!" She hissed. John didn't think she sounded too bothered, anything but in fact, which was all to the good.

"I'm merely levelling the playing field," Sherlock replied, dispassionate as always. 

John revelled in his freedom to touch and caress her skin unhindered, he lost himself in the scent and the feel of her. Even naked, she was still silk over steel; the softness of breasts and belly contrasted with the hard muscle of her legs and arse, and wet, oh so wet. He buried his face between her willingly parted legs and _tasted_ her, slick and so fucking hot. Then there were hands in his hair, _her_ hands, they tugged, pulled, _dragged_ him back up to where she wanted him. She kissed him, hot and dirty, almost more teeth than tongue, then pushed him away. His half formed protest died on his lips when her hands busied themselves with rolling a condom onto him; nothing else needed to be said. He bent to capture her mouth as he entered her with one hard and fast thrust, his hands cradling her arse, her legs wrapped around him, drawing him in, pulling him deeper. He stuttered to a halt, hardly daring to breathe for a moment because he was that close to losing it, wanting to immerse himself in sensation before sheer need took over. She shifted beneath him, hips pressing upwards, forcing him deeper, grinding herself against him as her legs tightened around him. He found there was nothing left he could do _but_ move; he was lost. Hands clutched at his shoulders, nails biting into his skin as he plunged into her, it was all sweet friction and unbelievable heat, breathless moans and guttural sighs, the pure and wicked pleasure of insistent lips against damp skin; a symphony of passion. He had no idea how he managed not to immediately fall apart when she shuddered through her climax, tightening around him unbelievably, but he didn't. He was buried deep inside her, moving in short, sharp thrusts when she laid a still trembling hand gently over the scar on his shoulder. 

She whispered against his skin, a soft puff of breath. "John."

It was enough to send him crashing over the edge.

 

The pounding of his heart seemed to be all he could hear and feel for the longest time though in reality it was probably only minutes. He was pleased that he'd maintained the presence of mind – albeit unconsciously – not to just collapse and leave Cally supporting his entire weight but they were in a bit of a tangled mess; a gorgeously sweaty, breathless and pleasantly achy tangled mess. 

"I hope you weren't planning on leaving too soon," John mumbled. "I can hardly move."

"No. Not doing the moving thing either; not just yet anyway."

"Good." He settled into the comfortable lassitude that surrounded them, too wrung out to worry about anything much, including Sherlock, and it only registered that Sherlock was still in the room when he pulled the quilt over them.

"You were becoming chilled," Sherlock said. It was true, though John hadn't initially noticed the rise of gooseflesh on his arm.

"Thanks," he said. He drifted for a bit longer, until he really couldn't ignore the various little discomforts any more. He brushed a hand over Cally's hair and pressed a gentle kiss to her temple.

"Moving?" She asked.

"Have to; sorry." He _was_ sorry; 'experiment' or not, to say he'd passed an enjoyable evening would be an understatement of the highest order and though he didn't particularly want to move, he needed to get his shoulder in a hot shower. The rest of him would also benefit from the same. He was glad that the recalcitrant plumbing was currently behaving itself and the main bathroom upstairs had hot water as well as Sherlock's tiny en-suite; two working bathrooms made things a lot easier.

By the time John made his way back down to the main living area, Cally was back in her hoodie and skirt, curled up on the sofa with a mug of tea in hand. The corset was bundled up into a roll on the coffee table, her doc martens sitting next to it. There was another mug of tea on the small table by his chair, John grabbed the tea, but chose to sit next to Cally on the sofa rather than in the chair; she gave him a quick smile as he sat down. Sherlock was slouched in his own chair, deep in thought.

"Told you it would be good to do it in a bed for a change," she said. 

John had to chuckle at that; in his opinion 'good' was the least it had been.

"You weren't wrong," he agreed. He finished his tea, enjoying the comfortable silence and the way she was leaning against him. He noticed her eyelids were drooping and gave her a nudge.

"I should go," she said.

"I'll order that taxi for you."

Sherlock still hadn't surfaced from wherever it was his mind had taken him by the time the taxi arrived but Cally didn't appear perturbed.

"We probably gave him a lot to process, just tell him thanks from me."

John waved her off from the front door after pressing a curiously chaste kiss to her cheek; she squeezed his arm in return. He headed back up the stairs and into the kitchen, intending to strip Sherlock's bed and put the sheets in the machine, until he realised the machine was already running.

"Cally did it," Sherlock announced, "and under her own volition too." John felt a bit guilty, but at least it saved him from having to change the bed and he would have _had_ to change it if she hadn't. Letting Sherlock attempt to sleep in the wreck he and Cally had made of the bed had never been an option.

John headed back into the living area, this time taking a seat in his chair which meant Sherlock was sitting opposite him. John stretched out, letting the familiar shape of the chair cradle him, aware that Sherlock was watching his every move.

"I hope you gathered enough data to keep you happy, as I don't think that will be happening again," John commented. He didn't mention that he wouldn't say no if Cally wanted to take him back to her place.

"I think so. While your enthusiasm is to be commended, it would have been…"

"Sherlock, being unenthusiastic during sex is not really an option. Well, not for me anyway."

Sherlock nodded, but John wasn't convinced it made sense to him at a basic level.

"How is your shoulder?"

"Fine," John said and he would ordinarily have left it at that, but he did kind of owe Sherlock. "Thanks to someone ensuring I didn't overstrain it."

Sherlock shrugged. "The experiment would likely have concluded in an unsatisfactory manner if I had not intervened."

John snorted; unsatisfactory was not the word he would have used, but it he supposed it was descriptive enough. He knew he should probably take himself off to bed because falling asleep in the chair would not do his shoulder a bit of good, even it was fine, but he was too comfortable and too tired to move, plus he was still a touch blissed out. 

Sherlock cleared his throat.

"I have a few ideas that would have enhanced your performance."

"It _wasn't_ a 'performance' Sherlock."

"Which I can list for you…"

"Don't bother."

"So when the experiment is repeated…"

"Not going to happen."

"You can bear them in mind. Of course with a man the parameters would need to be…"

"Sherlock! Definitely not going to happen!" John scrambled out of his chair and headed towards the stairs before he succumbed to an increasing temptation to punch Sherlock in the face.

"Pity."

"I… er what?" John spun round from his position near the door, his wish to punch Sherlock rapidly defused by the almost vulnerable expression on Sherlock's face.

"I found observing you… being intimate… quite illuminating."

"I..illuminating?"

"It's a part of you that I'm never likely to see for myself, but it's still a part of you."

"Oh." 

It explained a lot, John realised. In fact it explained _everything_ and his irritation with Sherlock withered away in the stark light of the truth; Sherlock was trying to understand what made John tick, even those aspects that were completely foreign to him, but because he was Sherlock it was done in his own distinctive fashion.

John leaned against the door frame and sighed; he wasn't sure he would _ever_ understand Sherlock but living with his mad brilliance was certainly never boring. Right now though, his brain was filled with mush and he was far too tired to even attempt to make any sense out of him.

"Go to bed, John," Sherlock said gently. John went; it was the sanest idea Sherlock had had all night which made it the most opportune moment for retreat. John hoped his dreams would be good ones and fell asleep to the soothing notes of Sherlock's violin.


End file.
